Fare Le Corna
by Kalquessa
Summary: A silly little banter ficlet written for my friend Izh's birthday. An empty theater, Shakespeare, and discussion of the term "cuckold." Season 1, no spoilers.


Sam had not been entirely prepared for how creepy the backstage of a community college theater could be when it was empty and mostly dark. He'd spent his year of high school drama club working mostly in the school's assembly hall, which just wasn't the same thing as a theater.The theaters where he _had_ been backstage had always been full of hustling people and blinding light from the stage.

In contrast, the wings he and Dean were skulking through at the moment were lit only by the ghost light, which looked lonely against the backdrop of a bare stage and row on row of empty seats. Sam found the whole scene slightly unnerving, for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain. When Dean asked what was eating him, he just shrugged and supplied "I've never been in a haunted theater before. Not one that I knew was haunted, anyway."

This, of course, made Dean look up from the thermo-scanner and point his flashlight at Sam's face in disbelief. "Really? Huh. Theaters kind of attract hauntings; I would have thought...weren't you there when we worked that one in Akron? You know, the spirit that kept trying to hang people."

"That was in 1992, Dean; I was nine." Sam tried not to smile. Or point out that _Dean_ had only been thirteen in 1992.

"Well, what about that thing in the Opera House in Crowley?"

"I stayed in the motel. I had a trig final the next morning."

Dean tilted his head, obviously scouring his memory for a haunted theater experience that had included Sam. "How 'bout the one with the...no, you were at Stanford by then." He scratched his head, shrugged, and went back to waving the thermo-scanner around.

"So what're you thinking?" said Sam, drawing the conversation back to the haunted theater at hand.

"I'm thinking that I can't believe any spirit would _choose_ to manifest as a dude with horns in a lace-up shirt."

"The professor I talked to said that Trevor Meginnes was hardcore into Shakespeare for years before his suicide," Sam said.

"Which might explain why his girlfriend ditched him for a guy who _wasn't_ a complete pansy-ass. This Meginnes guy can't even haunt a place properly."

"Just because no one's died yet doesn't mean they won't," Sam reminded him. "According to the professor, the attacks are getting more frequent and more violent. The last girl ended up falling down a flight of stairs."

"I'd push people down stairs, too, if they called me...what was it again? The Cuckold? What is _that_ about?"

"It's from Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare, again." Dean strolled out onto the empty stage, glancing at the solitary ghost light on its stand. "You know, I tried to watch _Hamlet_ once, with this chick who was really into that stuff." He shook his head, disgust evident. "_Three hours_ of this guy practically spitting his lines into the camera and crying over dead people. There was a ghost for like five minutes near the beginning, which I thought was promising, but it was a complete fake-out, because the ghost was a pushover and he only showed up once, just to _talk_. Fell asleep halfway through. Chick was pissed."

Sam couldn't decide which he found more amusing: the thought of his brother watching _Hamlet_ in an attempt to get into a girl's pants or the thought of Dean failing to get any because he'd snored through the deathbed reconciliation.

Dean made a circuit of the stage, not really scanning for anything, now, just eyeballing the light arrays, the prompter's corner, the vacant seats. He called back over his shoulder, "So what's the deal with the horns? And what's a cuckold?"

Sam took a few steps out of the wings and found that it was less creepy standing out in the middle of the stage. He relaxed enough to put his hands in his front pockets. "Both from Elizabethan England. If a guy's wife cheated on him without him knowing, he was supposed to grow horns that everyone but him could see."

"And that's a cuckold?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised. "A guy with horns whose wife is getting it on behind his back?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed, shrugging. "It was some sort of big joke in Shakespeare's time."

Dean made the face that meant _People are so friggin' weird,_ and replied "Whatever, it sounds like the name for some kind of freaky kink to me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "So _anyway_, about this spirit who keeps getting amateur actresses injured..."

Dean's business manner slid back in place. "Looks pretty straight-up to me. We know it's this Trevor guy, right?"

Sam nodded. "The professor said she recognized him, and so did one of the first girls he attacked, a couple years ago."

"Alright, then," Dean put the scanner inside his jacket and clapped his hands together. "We wait for dark, dig up our pal Trevor, and torch his loser ass. No muss, no fuss, and the ladies of Clackamas Community College can go back to playing Juliet or whatever the hell without fear of lame, horn-wearing spirits knocking them over."

Sam nodded his agreement, and started toward the exit. He looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Dean grin suddenly, and grab the stand of the ghost light in one hand.

In one fluid motion, Dean pulled the bare bulb to within careless inches of his face, where it made a perfect stand-in for a microphone as he struck a pose and sang, in his best Ozzy impression, "Heeeavy boots of lead, Fills his victims full of dread, Ruuunning as fast as they can, Iron man lives again!" He threw his free hand in the air, index and smallest fingers splayed in what Sam privately thought of as the heavy-metal _corna_, soaking in imaginary applause. Then he replaced the ghost light and turned to follow Sam, expression bland.

"What?" Dean asked innocently, when he passed Sam and noticed his brother's raised eyebrow.

Sam chuckled. "Dude. Symbolism." He held his own hand up in the devil-horns gesture.

"Those weren't that kind of horns, Sammy." Dean gave him a patronizing smile. "Those were 'rock on!' horns. A guy can't be denied the odd Black Sabbath moment when the opportunity presents itself."

Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn't restrain another chuckle. "It's reassuring to be reminded that I fight evil with a twelve-year-old."

Dean quickened his step. "This twelve-year-old needs a beer and onion rings if he's going to have the energy to exhume suicidal Shakespeare geeks later." When Sam didn't immediately match his speed, Dean started walking backwards and called "C'mon, Sam, haven't you heard? This place is haunted! By a dude who hates girls! Better get outta here before he pops up and scares you into twisting your ankle or something."


End file.
